Saturday, January 28, 2006

What will those darn kids think of next?

This from popbitch this week (I know, cheating):

>> Parlez-vous Popbitch <<
Get ready to be Seagulled
Happy Slapping is so 2005. To be too cool for school these days you have to do the Seagull.

In schools all over London, apparently, break-times are seeing boys running into the bogs to masturbate furiously, collect their jizz in the palms of their hands, then go out and find a younger kid.... then slap them in the face while shouting "SEAGULL!"

Try it in the office when you're bored.

??Whatever happened to the Scotch Finger biscuit? (Or is that reference a little too Melburnian?)

Familiar Plots

We got a family plot. And like it or not, he's going in there.

Without ruining the storyline completely for those who haven't seen it, that's kinda the seminal line for Brokeback Mountain. Walking around Oxfordia on Thursday night after watching it, I had a string of convos about how this film is affecting individual gaybois and dykes. One thing came up more than anything.

It's not quite what I expected - and the fact I was responding the same way was equally surprising.

I expected a little bit of a cliched response, to be frank. Something like 'Oh wow, that film was so important, and uplifting. It's so good to see ourselves represented like it is.' You know, cos so many of us are ranch hands who discover our sexuality while herding sheep. This of course would include gushing about Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal (and outright lusting after the two). Although let's be honest, boys: there aren't many of us who wouldn't lust after either (or both). The usual gushing would last about two days and then some new film would come along with equally cute leading men.

That was not quite what I saw. Sure, we all want to have Jake &/or Heath's babies (I'd be happy with both), but every conversation showed more of an introspective queer audience. The movie seems to have opened something up in us, maybe forced us to confront issues we'd much rather ignore. About the attitudes of people we care about but who will never accept us, or the issues in our lives we have had to just get by with rather than overcome, or something deepseated that we have not been able to face. Everyone I've spoken to has come back with a slightly haunted look in their face. There's something truly haunting about Brokeback - it's sure got into us good.

Official Movie Site

Friday, January 20, 2006

Word of the Day

In an attempt to improve my vocabulary, I am instituting an occasional word of the day. Today's word is:

Fucktard. n. [concat. retard AND fuckwit.]
cf. George W Bush, Jr

Unfortunately, neither the Oxford, Mirriam-Webster nor seem to have a definition for this word. The rest of us will continue to use it to refer to various people in our lives, and those of our loved ones.

Or Britney Spears' husband.

How do you say? Inevitable?

It had to happen.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Whatever happened to Brangelina?

Cast your mind back around 8 years ago:

Brad and Gwyneth

No, not Wacko Jacko's wedding.

Can you remember when Brad left Gwyn for Rachel Jennifer? (Remember her? She of the mid-nineties hair?)

Walking down Martin Place this morning, I came across this image:

Why I'm Having Brad's Baby, PLUS Jen's Shock Reaction!

Now, as far as I remember, didn't the cum rags have a ball for months afterwards telling everyone who bothered to listen how devastated Gwyneth was after they broke up? Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't she up the duff the second time, to the highly annoying and yet somewhat talented Chris Martin at the same time that the tabloids take us through the whole Jennifer Aniston post-Brad breakup saga?

Sides, isn't Jen supposed to be in love with Brad's bff? And why does every woman who dates Brad have to go through some heart-wrenching saga every time he breaks up with her? XXX-Brad-XXX triangles are so passe, especially when they don't involve me. I mean, it's not like he looks like this any more:

If you're wondering why I am even bothering writing about this, blame his Queer Penguinness. He started it.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

What kind of Scientologist are you?

Nothing like a breakfast meeting to bring out the religionloving side of me...

Monday, January 16, 2006

What is this Rio that you speak of?

Brazil is off the map, which is not a bad thing. Nothing like a couple of pithy cliches to make you truly happy you're not seeing anyone any longer. Not that I was really seeing anyone so much as doing that whole initial tango...

On the up side, I got to live out one of my secret dreams, and pilot a yacht around Sydney Harbour yesterday. Well, two, to be honest (on a totally 'unrelated' note, I recommend having sex on a yacht in the middle of the harbour to anyone, provided they don't get seasick).

Friday, January 13, 2006

Wolves in Shells Rough Draft

This is a rough draft, and incomplete at that. Comments required - I will eventually reedit this as I go along. Call it an exercise in interactive editing/writing.

Ask anyone that's me me for five minutes, and they'll tell you I'm ruthless. Seductive, flirtatious, sensual, driven; these are all words that apply to me.

It's only my closest friends that know it's a mask.

When I'm in anyone else's company, I am the ultimate Lothario. A handsome Casanova, making women melt even as I seduce their men. Spend ten seconds in my line of sight, and try not to lust after me. I guess that's why I was so blown away by JL - he saw right through me straight away.

He was everything I'm not: genuine, assured, together. It helped he was also tortuously beautiful. There was definitely something about that shock of shiny black hair, those caramel eyes, that ivory skin with just the right amount of stubble. Those plump, pink lips that begged to have a cock wrapped around them.


I was on a date. Some random blond twink actor's agent showing off his latest acquisition: an equally bland B-list actor who was starring in his first film after escaping his soap-opera 'career.' We were at the post-wrap party, listening to some dreary director blather about how this was his pet project, and how it was great to have it finally happening five years after he first came up with it. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, blah, blah, blah. I excused myself in order to 'freshen up,' the twink slipping me the goods as I slipped away.

Typically, it turned out to be more sugar than cocaine; more than enough to fill Elvis on one of his deep-fried peanut butter days. It took the whole bag to get a mild buzz. That's when I decided to leave the party. I couldn't be fucked saying goodbye to anyone.

That's also how I ended up in bed with JL. Okay, not bed so much as some sweaty half-lit cubicle at a sauna.

After I got him off, he started laughing. Big hearty, laughs with a touch of venom for extra spite.


He turned towards me, still laughing, and told me I was pathetic.

I've heard this bullshit before from different queens. They tease you to get you heated, it usually ends up with a great repeat performance. I took up the challenge.

Except he kept laughing the whole time we fucked, tears streaming down his face. He just kept guffawing, even when I managed to rip something inside him with one hard thrust. I stopped after that, bored of the game.

Still laughing, he looked me in the eye.

"You have no passion. " And after a moment, "No - that's not true. You have - how you say, 'misguided passsion'? What do you know about sex? Love?"

I stared him down.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"The lover you are not. The lover you'll never be."

I tried, but failed, to keep my voice level.

"What the fuck do you know about me?"

He shrugged, then leant down to the floor. He rummaged around his towel area, found a packet of cigarettes and pulled two out.

"You," he said, lighting both cigarettes and passing me one. He inhaled. "You are a hollow shell. You know nothing about anything, not even yourself."

I slapped him. Hard.

"Get fucked."

I stormed out of the room, noticing him wipe blood off his cheek. He was laughing. "I thought I just did."

I only realised I'd left my towel in the room when I got to the end of the dark hallway.


Three weeks later, I went to a party with friends - some Victorian terrace in the ghetto.

The host had bought some artwork the other week, and wanted to show off. We went to his
study for a 'private viewing.'

Of course, within thirty seconds, he was sucking me dry. Tongue playing with the base of my cockhead, throat expertly devouring my hard shaft, fingers deftly massaging my balls. What can I say? The boy knew how to look after his guests.

Just as I blew, someone started clapping from a dark corner.

JL stepped forward, smiling broadly.

"Bravo, Marco! One of your best performances yet!"

I stood there, wondering how he knew my name. I was sure I hadn't given it at the sauna. The host, by now completely red-faced, stammered some excuse. He couldn't get out the room quick enough.

The sound of the door slamming brought me back. I bowed, grinning venously.

"I do my best."

JL walked up to me, and zipped my pants.

"I've seen better."

He leaned forward, pushing a large wooden desk against my back. "You know, an old woman once told me when I want to seduce someone, I should pretend my equipment was damaged at war. That way, you could get to know the person well, maybe even fall in love with them, before you even get near the good stuff."

I sighed. Practically exhaled ennui. "Yes, I've read Armistead Maupin too."

"So why don't you try it? In fact I dare you."

"Sure - but I can headfuck with the best of them."

"I dare you. You can start with me."

"Fine," I retorted. Childishly.

It lasted all of ten seconds. We broke the desk fucking.


Of course, that was the start of it.

Over the next few weeks, every time I would head out, it was as if I had a "Leper" tattoo
on my forehead. I'd hit on some guy, who would promptly leave with some ultratoned prick.
Every night, I would end up in JL's bed, enduring the taunts at the end of every session.

At some point, I gave up. I'd go straight to his apartment after whatever function or dinner I had to attend, sometimes waiting for hours on the front stoop for him to arrive. The taunting
stopped, too, replaced by the sneer he reserved for me on arrival. "Oh, you've come again."

Gradually, he began to delay the sex. Whereas before we'd go straight to the bedroom, he would insist that he had some TV show to watch, or needed a cup of tea or a joint or a line. Or something.

Friends didn't see me for weeks. I started leaving work half an hour early, just so I could get to his place before he would.


One night, he didn't arrive.

I ended up sleeping in my car, uncomfortably curled under the wheel. Bucket seats are not good for sleep, no matter how high quality the leather.


I woke up at seven to the sound of the passenger door opening.

JL got in, sighed, and told me he loved me.

I slapped him. "Get out."

Seeing red the whole time, I drove home and took the day off. I ended up stumbling around the house all day, naked and delirious.

It was dark when I woke, a line of drool caressing the fabric on the couch. I poured myself a glass of red and stared at the blank TV screen.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

Wonton Slut

Everything about a creature that comes out of a shell is dialectical. And since it does not come out entirely, the part that comes out contradicts the part that remains inside. The creature's rear parts remain imprisoned in the solid geometrical forms. But life is in such haste when it comes out that it does not always take on a designated form, such as that of a young hare or a camel. Certain engravings show strangely mixed creatures, as in the case of the snail shown in the work by Baltrusaitis, "with a bearded human head and hare's ears, wearing a bishop's mitre, and with four animal feet." The shell is a witch's cauldron in which bestiality is brewing... unbridled, bestial daydream produces a diagram for a shortened version of animal evolution. In other words, in order to achieve grotesqueness, it suffices to abridge an evolution.
Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

One of my favourite silver rings to wear out has Common Whore lovingly inscribed on it. Enough said.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Is there life on Veronica Mars?

Doubt it.

Saw my first episode last night, something about a missing neighbour. By "saw", I mean "watched about 20 minutes before losing all interest and wishing I had a half-decent book in front of me to read." And that was after the second "Oh look, it's the dumb girl from Mean Girls", and the third "It's Elliott from Just Shoot Me!"

Cleaned my room instead.

Sunday, January 08, 2006


I'm back.

And a little more positive than usual. I think.

Anyway, this is just a general callout to see who's around, who's up for trouble, and who can help me in my quest to build the ultimate career, household and love life.

We have the technology. Now who can show me how to harness it, I wonder?